


Hold my Hand

by HumanyWumany



Series: Johnlocked [1]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, suggested character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanyWumany/pseuds/HumanyWumany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he wanted was for his friend to take his hand once more. That was all he needed but of course it would never happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold my Hand

This could not be happening. No no no it could not be happening. He could not lose him, not now, not now that he had finally allowed himself to see just how much he loved him. He needed him.

John’s eyes followed him as he fell, he had cried out for him but it didn’t stop gravity from playing it’s roll. Sherlock fell and John rushed to his aid. He ran to his side, praying that he would be alright. He was Sherlock, he had to be alright. Though as his hand found the body broken on the pavement his heart shattered.

Nothing… No pulse. Not a single sign of life… His Sherlock, the first and only man he loved was dead. And as his hand fell from John’s it took all he had not to cry. “He’s my friend.” that was all that left him as he was led away.

The next few days were a blur, the man sat in his chair, simply waiting for the detective to walk in, waiting to see him show up and explain some elaborate scheme of how he survived. Anything at all just to see him… He never came.

A week or so passed and the funeral came. He was there longer than the rest, just staring at the grave. The greatest man he would ever know laid there, buried under all that dirt… As he spoke to the grave, a lump forming in his throat, three words repeated themselves in his head. Three unspoken words as he patted the tombstone. Three little insignificant words… 

That night he contemplated it, suicide. There was a perfectly good roof over his head, a rope, a knife, even a gun… He thought long and hard about it, but in the end he stood and left to his bed. His hands finding their way under his pillow to hold the glove, one of the gloves Sherlock would wear. 

And in that moment, his eyes closed, he pictured Sherlock. He pictured the detective there holding his hand and in that moment he finally let himself break, a few silent tears sliding down his cheeks and three unspoken words finally coming out.

“I loved you.”


End file.
